I have just returned from a visit to my mother's, in the country. The long drive allows me time to think, to do what I call road writing. Of course I don't really write while driving, but I can work out the details that have been missing from a story in progress, or something as simple as a sign marking a county line might lead me to a new story. Sometimes I feel compelled to pull over and snap a photo, usually of something I must have seen a thousand times already on this same drive.
At mom's the field has turned to a lush green just weeks after being burned off. The lilacs are blooming and the bluebirds are making nests. The winter finches are still at the feeder that will soon be replaced with sugar water for the hummingbirds. It is quiet and peaceful there, always.
I return to my duplex, where I notice the neighbors have continued their lawnscaping by dropping more cigarette butts and beer cans at my door. When I asked them nicely to clean up after themselves, they said it looks like this because they don't smoke in the house. Their loud and odd noises that awaken me at all hours lead me to believe that they don't sleep in the house either.
So I am back on my quest to find my own home, where the yard will be littered with flower beds and birds and lilac bushes, and I can sleep peacefully. Almost like being in the country.